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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24708877">Lova</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiodurans/pseuds/radiodurans'>radiodurans</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Styles (Musician)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Baking, F/F, F/M, Gen, In which I am horribly earnest about wanting to be baked into a loaf of bread by Harry Styles, Is it vore. . .who’s to say let’s not think about it too hard, M/M, Other, POV: Reader, Tenderness, sourdough starter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:47:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,260</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24708877</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiodurans/pseuds/radiodurans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re a sourdough starter made from the natural yeast in Harry Styles’ kitchen. He bakes you into a loaf of bread, eats a slice, and shares you with his friends.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Styles/Bread, Harry Styles/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lova</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/whensheflies/gifts">whensheflies</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>There is definitely a time in my life where this would have been a shitpost but I think I’m like beyond irony now because the world is so bad and I’ve just become. Disgustingly earnest about any scrap of loveliness in the world. So yeah. Enjoy my fantasy about being tenderly fed, kneaded, and baked into a loaf of bread by Harry Styles in a pink apron.</p><p>Please do not send Mx. Harry Styles this fic. Any resemblance to persons living or dead are coincidental yadda yadda etc.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You feel the first spark of life on an early summer morning. Dull light shines through the jar you’re sat inside. You’re buoyant and bubbling, well-fed and content, knowing nothing but feeling purposeful. All you feel is love and the warmth of the sun. Somewhere, there is someone who has given you this life. Someone cares about you an awful lot.</p><p>Eventually, you grow hungry. It’s not unbearable, but you feel deflated, depressed. You stop bubbling, hoping that the person who made you will notice you’re in need. Luckily, this person is responsive. He opens the cheese cloth above you and clucks his tongue.</p><p>“Are you hungry, little one?” he asks. You bubble forlornly. He reaches in, scoops out flour waste, and puts in a fresh batch of flour. It tastes <em>delicious</em> and you immediately feel brighter. To show him, you bubble happily. He gives you a soft laugh.</p><p>“Glad you like it,” he says.</p><p>This routine goes on for several weeks. You eat until there is nothing left and then he feeds you again. Each day you grow stronger and more lively. You sense that there is some other life for you on the outside of the jar. The person feeding you – <em>Harry</em>, you learn – keeps a checklist next to your jar that he checks off with a pen each time you’re fed. You can tell he talks about you sometimes to the other people outside of your jar. This is a house of love; they’re excited about your growth too.</p><p>One day, Harry takes a piece of you out of the jar. He places you into a glass of water and watches you float. When you do, he claps his hands in delight.</p><p>“Brilliant. You’re ready!”</p><p>He rustles around in the kitchen for a very long time. You bubble with excitement as you hear each piece of equipment and ingredient placed on the counter. Eventually, he grabs a teaspoon of you, and places you into a bowl with more flour, water, and salt. Harry mixes you around until you’re all blended up with the other ingredients inside a bowl. It’s so <em>freeing</em>to be on this new adventure outside of your jar. The kitchen is bright with natural light and the windows are open to allow the breeze to float in. You feel Harry’s unique scents pass through you, infusing the dough with the essence of himself. Perhaps people will be able to tell, when they eat you, that you were made by Harry without even being told.</p><p>Harry sprinkles a cutting board with flour, takes you out of the bowl, and kneads you on the cutting board with the heel of his hand. Each strong <em>push</em> smooths out a different uncomfortable lump in your dough. He shapes and reshapes you, adding flour to make you less tacky. You start to solidify under his fingers after a few minutes and he hums with satisfaction. Occasionally, he scrapes you into a solid ball with a kitchen knife before doing it again, making sure that none of your dough is wasted. You feel grateful that he wants to make sure every piece of you is baked into the loaf of bread you were meant to become. Harry believes by example that not a single piece of you belongs in the trash.</p><p>Once you’re sufficiently solid, Harry tosses you back and forth in his hands. He shapes you into a neat ball and puts you into a bowl. Then, he sets a timer next to you and allows you to rise. You’re grateful for the chance to breathe and appreciate this new awareness of yourself as a solid form. Harry keeps you company during this time, reading a book and eating strawberries on the counter. When the timer goes off, he tosses the strawberry stems into a compost bin outside the windowsill and wipes his hands on his pink apron.</p><p>“Time to turn you into a couple of loaves, eh?” he says. Then, he hoists you out of your bowl and plops you onto a big baking sheet dusted with flour. Harry splits you in two with his hands, then carefully molds you into a round loaf and a long loaf. He sets another timer, grabs some watermelon from the fridge, and continues to read his book. You feel a little impatient now because you’re so eager to be baked so you do everything you can to rise as fast as possible. By the time the second timer is done, you’re more than ready to go.</p><p>Harry grabs a water spritzer from the counter and smiles at you.</p><p>“Well done!” he says. Then, he sprays you with a fine mist of water. All the growth was making you feel rather dry, so you’re grateful for the hydration. After, he grabs more flour, and dusts it atop you. He’s trying to make you an <em>artisan</em>loaf; he wants everyone to know just by looking how special you are. After, he grabs a lame and, with a few bold strokes, slashes you so that you can bake just right. He gives each of your loaves a fond pat before carrying both of you over to the most sacred place in the room – the <em>oven – </em>and placing you inside. Here, you will become exactly who you are supposed to be.</p><p>The inside of the oven shimmers at an even heat. All of your molecules are made anew as you bake, a heady metamorphosis that sparks delight in your every pore. Harry stares at you through the glass with a grin on his face. He’s clearly eager for you to be done. You will yourself to bake, <em>bake</em>, because you cannot tell him – <em>I’m eager too!</em>Thankfully, you are done by the time his timer goes off. Harry pulls you out of the oven with an oven mitt and tilts you onto a cooling rack. He gives you a fond gaze and tries to touch you before remembering you are too hot.</p><p>“Right! Soon,” he says. Harry goes off to clean the kitchen – he’s made <em>quite </em>a mess while making you. Your crust crackles and cools while he washes, dries, and puts away the pots and pans. He cleans the counters, whistling all the while. Then, he removes his apron, hangs it up, and roots around in the fridge for the butter. He also grabs a serrated knife – it’s <em>time.</em></p><p>Harry cuts into the end of your round loaf slowly, careful to not make too much of a mess with crumbs. Then, he puts a pat of butter on you that’s too big to spread. He watches it melt for a while, squeezing you in between his fingers.</p><p>“Cheers,” he says when the butter is sufficiently melted. Then, he eats the piece of you in his hand. Every part of you feels full to bursting with happiness knowing that you are finally nourishing him as he nourished you. He licks your crumbs off of his fingers and face, delighted with how you taste.</p><p>Harry washes his hands before packing you up and stowing you away in a container. While you’d love for him to sit and eat you all day, the <em>container</em> brings a new and exciting promise. Harry thinks you turned out so well that he’s going to share you with his friends and family. All of Harry’s loved ones are going to taste the wonderful day you and Harry shared when they bite into your thick crust.</p><p>Storing you away sends the sweetest message of all. Many good days are yet to come.</p><p> </p>
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